


Road Trips Without Maps

by MemeKonO8 (MemeKonYA)



Category: Ocean's 8 (2018)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Post-Canon, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 09:20:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17077613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemeKonYA/pseuds/MemeKonO8
Summary: When Lou catches her eyes following the ring on some young ingénue’s finger, she rolls her eyes, but she still leans back on her seat, all her easy confidence lending the pose the dignity it probably wouldn’t have on anyone else, and lets her eyes roam over the girl’s entourage, calculating.“I thought you were above petty crimes,” she says as she takes a compact mirror from her purse. She watches the girl on it while she pretends to be checking her makeup, and when she catches Lou’s gaze for a second, she smiles.“Am I, now?” Lou asks, leaning into her to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.





	Road Trips Without Maps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [victoria_p (musesfool)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/gifts).



The dress is stunning, its pleated chiffon skirt looking all billowy and like it was dragged right out of some little girl’s dreams, and the intricate design of the lace and organza bodice fitting her like a worn glove, glinting brilliantly under the camera flashes. 

It would also probably be classified as a torture device in at least a couple dozen countries.

“The lace itches,” she mutters under her breath, and smiles pleasantly at one of the reporters from E!, who’s been sizing her up for the past couple of minutes. “And I might have something stuck in my teeth.”

“You wanted the whole shebang, babe,” Lou mutters back, eyes gleaming with amusement. It’s the easiest thing to inch closer to her and smile, even with the lace rubbing her raw in all the wrong ways.

Lou looks _fantastic_. 

She’s a storm in sequined platform boots, wearing the kind of scandalous catsuit that would have church ladies clutching their pearls and trashy gossip blogs posting picture after picture of her underwear’s outline if she was an A-lister.

Or if she was wearing any underwear at all.

Good betting odds are she isn’t. Debbie hasn’t seen her pack as much as a single thong for this trip, and they’d pretty much lived in each other’s pockets before Claude and there hadn’t been much in the way of panties back then either, with Lou lounging around in baggy shorts and sport bras when at home, the elastic slipping a little from time to time to let Debbie see the pale smooth skin just above the swell of her ass, where she has a mole that Debbie knew marked a ticklish spot.

“Yeah, well, I was wrong,” she tells Lou, and even though the words sound husky, Lou doesn’t comment on it. She just smiles, lopsided, her eyes warm. “The Oscars are stupid anyway, everyone knows the Academy is full of it.”

Lou’s hand circles her waist, and she leans some of her weight on her. It’s such a familiar gesture that her body reacts to it on its own, shifting slightly to accommodate their combined weight, her own hand going to Lou’s waist, her steps slowing down to sync up with Lou’s. 

It’s always like that with Lou. It’s always been like that with her. Like an old sleight of hand trick that you’ve practiced a thousand times, that you know down to the core, that you could play in your sleep because you’ve made it your own. After a while your body goes ‘oh, I know how this song goes’ and it takes over, and suddenly it’s five years after the last time you’ve tried playing the trick but you find out as soon as you do that it doesn’t matter. 

And it really doesn’t.

“But they sure know how to throw a party,” Lou says, and Debbie laughs, turning her head to bury the loudest of her outburst against Lou’s chest.

 

When Lou catches her eyes following the ring on some young ingénue’s finger, she rolls her eyes, but she still leans back on her seat, all her easy confidence lending the pose the dignity it probably wouldn’t have on anyone else, and lets her eyes roam over the girl’s entourage, calculating.

“I thought you were above petty crimes,” she says as she takes a compact mirror from her purse. She watches the girl on it while she pretends to be checking her makeup, and when she catches Lou’s gaze for a second, she smiles. 

“Am I, now?” Lou asks, leaning into her to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

Debbie turns slightly, and they’re left staring at each other with a scant few inches between them. This close, Debbie can see the flecks of color in her eyes, the way they are bright and clear. 

She brings her hand up to Lou’s face, and rubs a thumb softly under her right eye. Lou leans into the touch.

“Eyeliner smudge,” she says, feeling her smile soften on her face, feeling her stomach tight, and her wrists a little achy with something that’s about as scary as it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s been like this with them since the heist. With the words, with the touching, with Lou sitting down next to her one morning, all wind tousled, looking like life on the road and like a dozen filthy promises, and asking if she wanted to come along. When Debbie had asked where, she’d shrugged, said _anywhere a bike can take us, babe_ and even though Debbie had never been as fond of bikes as Lou was, she’d shrugged, eaten a spoonful of leftover pad thai and said _sure, I’m a free lady_.

It’s been a slow burn of glances, smiles, touches. 

Debbie would probably be frustrated if she hadn’t learned a lesson about patience in the worst possible way. 

As it is, she’s just enjoying the ride, knowing the destination but having no real clue what road they’re taking there. 

Like a road trip without maps.

Ten years ago, the idea would’ve made her skin itch. 

Now, she just smiles at Lou, savors the way heat coils low in her when Lou smiles back, the tilt of her lips still full of promises.

 

They make a sort of game out of it. 

They spend most of the ceremony ooohing and aaaaahing when appropriate, and the rest of it planning their strike, going with as basic a plot as they can, to minimize the chances of fucking up. 

It’s all only a couple steps above pickpocketing, which is neither of their specialties, but Lou is fairly confident in her abilities regardless, says she has picked a trick or two or ten from Constance, and Debbie’s confident in their ability to talk their way out of trouble.

They wait until the after party, and then pull their two woman job off, planting a diversion while they get their hands on the prize, and then staying for long enough to avoid looking like the prime suspects if miss ingénue happens to notice her missing ring.

She doesn’t, drunk off a couple of champagne flutes and a win, and it all goes off without a hitch.

 

“It was almost too easy,” Debbie says the morning after as they have breakfast in bed, tracing a finger over the gorgeous diamond protruding proudly and almost a little obscene at the center of the ring that holds place of honor on a pillow next to them.

“You sound alarmingly upset. You should get a hobby. Maybe macramé.” Lou’s words are dry, but when Debbie looks up at her, there’s an indulgent gleam in her eyes. 

The heat comes back, coiling and uncoiling tightly, and Debbie feels like it’s her time at the wheel, so she slides the pillow with the ring towards Lou. 

“How do you feel about wedding planning?” She asks.

Lou raises an eyebrow, and takes her time cutting into her eggs. 

“Isn’t that a little backwards?” She asks, after swallowing a forkful of them.

Debbie shrugs.

“I figure we can fit plenty of dates before we’re walking down the aisle.”

Lou smiles.

“You always have a plan, huh?”

Debbie smiles back, and leans forward, thumbing a bit of yolk from the corner of Lou’s lips. She sucks on her thumb, after, and enjoys the way Lou’s eyes follow the motion, almost involuntary. 

“You know me,” she says.

“I do,” Lou agrees, before putting her cutlery down and chasing after her, hands cupping Debbie’s face, nose brushing against hers for a couple of seconds— just enough for them to do it with purpose, laughing a little, breathy, before Lou finally closes up the distance, her lips soft and wet and just a little sticky, and God, still so utterly wonderful.

When they part, foreheads touching, Debbie asks, “Is that a yes?”

Lou smiles, wicked, just as full of promises as she was that morning she sat across from her and told her _anywhere_ and probably meant _everywhere_ , and says, “You know me.”


End file.
